


short days long nights

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Cooking, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Intimacy, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, POV Martino Rametta, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Martino isn’t allowed to stay over but he stays over anyway, giggles and smoking and feelings and kisses ensue, and Niccolò’s second attempt at making carbonara turns out only a little bit better than promised. Oh, and Marti checks Nico out every chance he gets.





	short days long nights

**Author's Note:**

> Here are some feelings sandwiched with fluff. I feel like this fic has way too many emotions for barely being over 3k words lol, but I wrote it! So now I feel obligated to share it! Enjoy! ❤️

> **Niccolò:**  
>  they said not tonight :(

Marti pouts his lips at the old school emoji, reflexively making the same face. He can’t help but feel just a little disappointed.

When, truthfully, what he really is is spoiled. More often than not Nico’s parents don’t mind if Marti stays over on occasion. But, to further the overindulgence, they’ve been away in London all week which means Marti has permanently made Nico’s bed his own for the past few nights.

So, yeah, he’s gotten used to falling asleep with his nose in Nico’s neck, their legs tangled up, hands across waists and on smalls of backs and combing through curls.

But Marti doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, and he gets it: traveling is exhausting and the last thing Nico’s parents probably want to do after they just got home is play host. 

(Not that Marti expects them to. He just wants to fall asleep next to Nico.)

And yet, erring on the side of his one-track-mind, he texts Nico back with a compromise.

> **Martino:**  
>  what if i sneak in after they go to bed?

> **Niccolò:**  
>  this seems like a bad idea  
>  i can already hear dad snoring if you want to head over now  
>  don’t ring i will meet you outside <3

 

• • •

 

Nico is finishing a cigarette, perched up against a car parked on the street when Marti rounds the corner from the bus stop.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Hey, handsome.” Nico offers Marti a drag without offering him the actual cigarette, placing it up to his mouth for him.

Marti inhales, barely able to wrap his lips around as he smiles. Their eyes meet, and Marti sees Nico study his face with soft eyes from the tip of his nose to the lobes of his ears.

“What’s up? How was school?” Nico asks, genuinely curious. Marti can feel a hand snake around the dip of his waist and rest in his back pocket. It’s been less than eight hours since they’ve last seen each other. And if they hadn’t spent the night last night, it would have been sixteen. While still not long, Nico is Marti’s favorite part of every day. Standing here, next to him, it feels like a mini-lifetime has passed since he’s last heard his voice. Saw his smile. Felt his skin.

Marti thought not having Nico around during his last year would be less distracting. Turns out it’s more, since all he can ever think about in class is the next time they’ll see each other.

“It was fine,” Marti breathes out, smoke with it. “Still a little weird to not have you around. I missed you a bit.” He leans into Nico, looks over at him — trails his gaze over his profile and the two fingers brought up to his mouth to finish the cigarette. “I mean, I guess,” Marti adds, feeling his smile go crooked. His eyes go big.

Nico laughs the smoke out, choking on it. His whole body moves with his smile — like he’s smiling everywhere: Nico is the personification of a smile. “You guess?” He repeats, looking back at Marti with his tongue resting preciously between his teeth. He flicks his eyes down, up.

Marti wouldn’t mind kissing him right here, right now. In fact, it’s tempting to. He can already feel the air grow staticky between them, a current blue with ignition and red with heat. But he can wait.

“I mean, you’re nothing special,” Marti leans back and glances over Nico, sizing him up with a playful frown and a tilt of the head.

Nico flicks the cigarette on the ground with a giggle, looking down. He moves to pull a new one out of his pocket. “Excuse me,” he sighs, “then who is this person so obsessed with me he’s begging to sneak into my place for the night? Even though we’ve shared a bed for the past week? Where is he?” He looks around, as if for someone else, and then he looks up, and they lock eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Marti says, tilting his chin high, almost seriously enough to be convincing.

“Okay,” Nico agrees flatly around the new cigarette, admitting defeat. He slips his hand away from Marti and uses one to light it and one to shield the breeze. “One more, then.” He takes a drag. “To buy us another minute until mum falls asleep. Plus, it’s a nice night.”

They both look up, backs settled against the car with bent necks. The sky is clear, the air is warm — a light wind so modest it almost goes undetected. Nico lives in such a pretty neighborhood, Marti doesn’t know if extinguishing all the lights of Rome to see the stars would even be worth it. The stone pines rise high on the hills to the south. Rooftops and balconies are dripping with laundry and flowers. Everything is bathed in soft black shadows and pale orange highlights.

“You too, by the way,” Nico whispers, handing Marti the cigarette. His hand finds it’s way back to his waist. Back in his pocket. “I missed you too.”

 

• • •

 

When they sneak in, the floorboard creaks under Marti’s weight on the landing after a careful minute spent just to shut the front door silently. It doesn’t help that they have the giggles.

Nico is trying to glare at him, but it’s not working between loud laughs threatening to source from their stomachs. They swallow them, shushing each other as if that’s quieter than the squeaky floor as they tiptoe to Nico’s room.

“Where’s your stuff?” Nico whispers after they’ve successfully shut his french doors behind them.

“My stuff?” Marti repeats, sitting on his bed, confused.

“Did you bring pajamas? A toothbrush?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Marti purses his lips, a snort building in his chest, and he tips his head down to try and shush it. They look at each other, growing smiles in the dark silence, and he falls back on the bed, a giggling mess.

“There’s so much of your shit already here anyway,” Nico sighs warmly.

Marti hears him open drawers, feels some light fabric hit him as Nico throws a new shirt at his face. He changes into it, takes off his jeans, gets comfy and cross-legged on top of the covers while he watches Nico open a window.

“Will you roll it?” Nico asks, moving across the room and pulling the ukelele from his top shelf, setting it on the bed next to Marti before finding something to change into.

Only Marti’s barely loosened the strings to reach his hand in before getting distracted watching Nico take his shirt off. His breath feels thick in his throat, he bites his lip. It’s nothing new, nothing he hasn’t seen before, but he still smirks when Nico joins him on the bed in only his underwear. His skin going a degree warmer.

“What?” Nico asks, and Marti watches his shoulders shrug, watches him brush his hair back out of his face, his arm flex as he does so. His smile crinkle up so his lips thin around his teeth. “You’re so useless, give it to me.” Nico teases, reaching for the ukelele.

“I got it,” Marti mouths, pretending to be offended through a sly, sideways grin. “Be patient,” he scolds playfully, reaching to pat Nico twice on the cheek. 

Nico just tries to bite his pinky finger.

The weed is sticky on Marti’s fingers as he breaks it up, flattening the paper on the smooth part of the ukelele. He can barely twist the end of the joint when he’s done, and he rustles his hand back through the strings to find a lighter. 

Nico rubs Marti’s knee and looks out the window. The mood shifts in the silence.

“I wish you could stay with me every night.” 

Nico says it softly, his middle finger moving slow across the bump of Marti’s kneecap, up and down like an inchworm. His face is contemplative, but not sad. Marti recognizes the expression.

They’ve melted so fast from smiles and giggles into reality.

And maybe it’s dawning on him, too, that after nearly a week together at night, while Marti starts school again, he won’t be here tomorrow — that sneaking in when Nico’s parents say no will be a rare occasion. That Marti needs to spend time with his mom, too.

That their time together like this is limited for now, and dwindling.

But Marti’s learned the best thing to do is be hopeful. Reassuring. And most importantly, honest. “One day,” he hums, his thumb on the spark wheel of the lighter. (And it’s true. One day, they will. In their own place. They’ll make it homey and warm and theirs. They’ll cook dinner and play music and do whatever they want, shielded from the eyes of the rest of the world between four walls, five floors up somewhere in Trastevere or Testaccio or Ostiense.) He flicks it, the flame bright for a second; that gets Nico to look at him, his eyes smiling before the rest of him, lips eventually curling into a cute squiggle. 

Marti puts the joint up to Nico’s mouth — who holds it between his teeth — and then lights it for him.

Nico stretches out as he inhales, legs long in front of him while he scoots forward so Marti is in between his thighs, nestled there. Marti runs his hands along them, dragging his palms down his shins and savoring every little touch. Every little hair. Every little thing that has lead him here.

(Because never in his life did he think he would be here.)

“This stuff is better than what you had last time,” Marti notes when Nico passes it back and he takes a hit. He holds it in, can feel his head get fuzzier. The skin of his legs on the skin of Nico’s buzzes: flushed and staticky. The urge to feel it all over — to get closer — it increases with every hit. They’re silent for a long time as it dwindles down — looking at each other, out the window. Letting hands rest on knees, thighs, hips, feet. Just melting into each other’s presence as their brains whir in the smoke. Cherishing the fact they get to be themselves in Nico’s bed. No masks or hesitations. Pretending time will stop.

The joint’s only half smoked before Marti is high. Like, properly high. His heart rate is up, his face feels heavy, his thoughts are fast and smart with no conclusions. And then he forgets them entirely. But most of them are about Nico, and most of the ones about Nico are about how wonderful he is.

Wonderful and brave and talented and a little weird but wow — they fit so perfectly together, don’t they? On a scale, they balance to the exact ounce. So flawlessly in sync… and yet Marti still has every sense of self when they talk to each other. Or even when they don’t. They’ve found each other, but never lost who they were. Like if being complete had a next step. _More complete,_ if that’s a thing. It’s the only way to describe how Marti feels.

(Most of the time, Marti is pulled between feeling like this could all stop at any second, or that no matter what happens, they are forever fated. Sometimes he feels both at the same time, like right now.)

“Can I kiss you?” Marti doesn’t know why he’s asking. Maybe because Nico is still looking out the window, at a car zip over the cobblestones. Despite it, he feels nervous when he asks. He just wants to be close to Nico. Almost as if he’s warning him for how intense his feelings might seep through.

Nico’s lip tips up at the corner before they meet eyes. His eyebrows follow — everything about his face rising. Shoulders too. Again, that smile that just takes over his whole body.

“Of course, c’mere.” His voice is so low. Nico slides his hand on Marti’s knee up his thigh, pushing on his lower back to move him forward until they slot together. Leg over leg. In each other’s lap at the same time. Preparing, like he knows what kind of kiss this is going to be. Like he wants to soak Marti in, too. And just be.

Their faces are close before anything happens. Soft breaths on shoulders, hands getting comfortable. Marti’s makes it’s way up to cup Nico’s cheek before leaning in with a smile, somehow feeling even more nervous than before. Nico smells so good. His lungs shake. All the blood in his body feels thick. His head is so light it doesn’t feel like part of his body.

But when he kisses Nico — more importantly — when he feels Nico _smile_ against his lips, all of the parts of Marti that feel too big or too fast or too unsteady settle. They lock into place.

Marti holds him close, stabilizing it all. Cradles the back of his neck and loops circles in his curls with his fingers. Feels all of their long limbs and pointy joints wrestle for space while they inch closer to each other. Opens his mouth to kiss him deeper.

It’s a kiss with tongues. With hot skin. With deep breaths in through their nose and out through their mouth when they turn their heads. But it’s all so isolated. It doesn’t have to go anywhere, because the underlying intimacy of it is fulfilling enough. At least for Marti. A whole conversation is being had with this kiss, and that’s why it’s heavy and hot and long. For no other reason, really, does this conversation need to go anywhere else. They’re saying all they need to say with it.

“My parents are in the room over,” Nico warns, not breaking away. Not even relenting. As if he wouldn’t even fight it.

“I just want to kiss you,” Marti reassures him, proving his point as he continues to do so. Just focused entirely on Nico’s lips, the way his jaw moves under his hand, the way they are connected. His high heightens it all — his thoughts, weightless; his heart, softening; his stomach —

It growls.

Nico pulls away, laughing into Marti’s mouth before he does so. “Are you sure you don’t just want something to eat? Did you even have dinner?”

Embarrassed, Marti snorts. “I think I just got pizza with Gio after school,” he remembers.

“C’mon, then,” Nico whispers, hurrying Marti off the bed. “You know what I owe you?” His smile is way too devilish.

“Uh oh.”

“Another attempt at carbonara.”

 _“Attempt_ being the key word…” Marti murmurs, letting Nico drag him out of the room, bare feet on the wood floor, turning to tile in the kitchen.

“This time,” Nico whispers so quietly he almost mouths it, “I actually have everything to make it.”

“When did you go grocery shopping?”

“This afternoon,” he smiles, tongue sticking out between his teeth. 

Nico slowly drags a pot from the cupboard, making an effort to create little to no noise. The water is the tricky part — they wince as it splashes on the metal before sticking the faucet head all the way down into the water that collects to silence it.

Marti rifles through the fridge, completely at home, taking out the guanciale and cheese. “Where is the grater?” He mouths to Nico.

“Let me do it!”

“I can help!”

“You don’t trust me.” Nico swats Marti’s hands away from the eggs on the counter. It’s playful, but loaded.

“I trust you.” Marti says it immediately. He pouts his lips, leans back on the counter, and crosses his arms. Only now does he realize how buzzed his body still feels from that kiss. He reaches out to touch Nico’s elbow — literally anything. His fingers find skin involuntarily. “I do,” he repeats, lucky Nico is meeting his eyes because it’s so soft, almost inaudible. And he means it. And more than just with the carbonara.

“I know you do.”

Marti pulls his elbow, positioning Nico in front of him, and he cups his face, kisses him gentle. He thinks it must take Nico by surprise, because he goes so soft he can barely stand.

“By the way, you never told me what you did in that restaurant in London.”

Nico scoffs, pulling back. “You think they let me anywhere near the food? I washed dishes.”

“Washed dishes?” Marti giggles, voice going high at the end, and Nico puts a hand over his mouth because he’s being too loud.

“Yes,” he mouths, eyes wide in a wicked kind of way, his lips pursing into a cute curl. “I washed dishes. Don’t make fun of me.”

“I just assumed maybe you were a waiter or something. They tip there, right? You’d make nice tips,” Marti hums under his hand — eyes him, gaze low and trailing up. 

Nico moves his grip loosely to Marti’s neck. 

“Oh yeah? Why?”

Marti bites his lip, unanswering, and just gestures vaguely up and down with his hand and a smiley frown. 

“Why?” Nico presses, and he tickles Marti’s chest.

“Because you look…” Marti trails, trying to be quiet through a snort. No interest in being anything but teasingly stubborn. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” This seems to genuinely stump Nico, who takes a step back and cocks an eyebrow. Still, though — his whole body is smiling.

“Interesting,” Marti repeats assuredly and adamantly playful.

“Okay,” Nico sighs, rolling his eyes in defeat. He smiles wide with his teeth — Marti’s favorite kind of smile, and goes back to the stove.

“So I can help, then?” Marti asks.

Nico just waves at the ingredients sitting on the counter and makes no fuss when Marti grates the cheese into the eggs, whisking it all together. 

Marti refrains himself from telling Nico to turn up the heat while he sautees the guanciale, bites his tongue when Nico should have drained the pasta about thirty seconds ago. Because it’ll be fine. He trusts Nico (with everything, of course, but also to at least make better carbonara than last time — if you could even call it that).

It’s a miracle neither the sound nor the smell has woken up Nico’s parents, and maybe midnight pasta wasn’t the best idea if Marti wanted to be discreet. At least his rumbling stomach wouldn’t have woken anyone up. Nico persists on finishing, though.

They plate it, leave all of the dirty dishes on the counter, and slip soundlessly back into Nico’s room to eat on his bed, cross-legged and opposite each other.

Before Marti can take a bite, Nico twists the spaghetti on his own fork and feeds it to him, almost spitting it out it’s so hot.

“How is it?”

Marti struggles to swallow. “It still doesn’t taste quite right,” he pants, fanning his mouth dramatically.

“Oh, c’mon!”

“No, it’s good!” He insists, because it is. “But it’s missing something?”

Nico looks adorably vexed. Marti thinks it’s so cute when his voice gets a note higher in half-hearted irritation. “You helped me, what could it possibly be missing?”

“Salt, maybe? Did you salt the water?”

Nico’s eyes go wide in horror, and he takes a careful bite to judge for himself. “I think I did,” he nods, but not pressed about it. “But it’s better than last time?”

“Sure,” Marti jokes, tilting his head to the side.

That just makes Nico sigh and scrunch his nose, his lazy frustration hidden badly over a smile.

“No, it is!” Marti insists. “A gold star second attempt.” He reaches over to pinch Nico’s cheek.

“You’re giving me gold stars, now?” Nico dips his chin down, his eyebrows up.

“Sure. Do you want me to stick them on the fridge?”

“Fucking asshole,” Nico whisper laughs, and he leans forward so suddenly and plants a fat kiss on Marti’s lips, his hand on the back of his head. He says the next part through it, lips parting in a smile that Marti can feel permeate his whole body: “You get a gold star for being an asshole.”

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com)


End file.
